


For Better or Worse

by Kuraiummei



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Danger then fluff, Fanon fills, M/M, Mindcanon fills, Nihlus is an adrenaline junkie, Saren is touch averse and grouchy, Terrorism, casual nudity, let me know if I'm missing tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23182645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kuraiummei/pseuds/Kuraiummei
Summary: Nihlus Kryik has been training with Saren Arterius just long enough for two unexpected things to happen: One, he's discovered that Saren's still waters run impossibly deep. The ST&R agent is every bit as unique and interesting as he appeared at first glance. Two, the laconic Spectre has a personal space bubble a meter wide.... but Nihlus has always had trouble respecting boundaries.For once, it might not be a bad thing.
Relationships: Saren Arterius/Nihlus Kryik
Comments: 8
Kudos: 19





	For Better or Worse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helludic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helludic/gifts).



> A/N: Written in appreciation for [Helludic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helludic) and the delightful, whimsical, stylish art which they create for our community nearly every week. In particular, they recently released a series of nsfw snuggly pictures with Saren/Nihlus that you can find over [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22964017). 
> 
> Listening to: "Is This the End" by Hidden Citizens  
> (Background synth resembles the map music from Mass Effect, and that made me smile.)
> 
> The future has long been stolen.  
> The past keeps us wide awake.  
> The shadows among the broken...  
> Too late for us to save.  
> Can we take the pieces and the parts, use it all to cover up the scars?  
> Is this the end?  
> Or just the beginning?  
> Only time will tell.

The terrorist screamed, briefly, as Nihlus' pistol went off into their armpit, in the gap between sections of armor. A point-blank round into that weak spot ensured that only one pull of the trigger was needed. 

“Down,” came Saren’s cultured rumble over coms. 

Nihlus dropped flat to his belly, no questions asked. He rolled over, heavy pistol and omni-blade ready for whoever. Right where he'd been standing not a split second ago a _rocket_ sped through, trailing smoke and rushing past with a doppler shifted screech. 

Perversely, it made Nihlus smile like knives as the _boom_ went off in the background. 

“Incoming, due south,” crackled on their open channel, and Nihlus rolled himself up out of the sand. He spared a second to check on Saren, who had the asshole with the rocket launcher on the ground, choking on nothing as affected gravity compressed their torso too small for breathing. Twelve other hostiles were already down, messy clumps of warp-shredded flesh and his own, less flashy, bullets. They seemed to be doing just fine.

His shield rippled with a hit, making him duck automatically. More targets were firing at them from higher up the hills, hidden in the valley’s rock formations, but Nihlus assumed his mentor wanted him to handle the southerly incoming. He hadn't said that exactly, but Saren rarely did. 

The Spectre trainee turned for the mouth of the rocky valley and booked it, swapping close quarters weapons for something with range as he moved. His swanky new HMWA unfolded with nary a whisper, it’s dark red scout’s rifle mods the only sections of equipment not painted a solid charcoal. 

Nihlus moved forward while keeping low, finding a nice clump of rocks that would give him partial cover from both ahead and behind. Tucking himself into the nook, he glanced at the radar on his helmet’s heads up display, looking for new icons. 

Nothing blipped from the south, or even the southish, the only movement was from the activity behind him. He leaned out of cover, green eyes peering off into the sweeping dunes that spread endlessly from the mouth of the valley. Annoyance pulled at his mandibles, knowing that they were on something of a time crunch. They had to get the terrorist leader’s deactivation key, and make it back to the colony before, well... very big boom. 

“Saren, I’m not seeing any activity out there,” he called, pulling back into the nook and idly reseating his current thermal clip. Coms were quiet for a windy stretch of time, long enough that Nihlus' right leg started to bounce, before his mentor finally replied. 

“Remind me to upgrade your radar package the next time we are on-station. In the meantime, hold position. I see activity ten degrees east off due south.”

“Copy that,” Nihlus replied, pulling up the scope on his rifle and playing the line-up-sights-while-wearing-a-helm game. The red metal hit his view port with a _clink_ several times before he had the angle just right. Peach haze resolved into desert dunes, and he scanned the horizon for movement. 

The local agri-colony was tiny towers in the distance, barely more than specks that disappeared easily in the heat haze. Clear skies, a little more green than blue, sat on the desert like a glass shell. It was gorgeous out here, but empty. Devoid of movement or native life, just like the plant nerds liked it.

He was tempted to ask how sure Saren was on that ‘incoming’.

His scope caught a glimpse of dust jetting into the air. A second look caught the distant, telltale plume of sand in the wake of fast moving ground transport. The enemy reinforcements crested the next dune and he caught sight of the vehicle itself, an armored shuttle heading right for them. “I’ve got eyes on that activity. It’s an APC, be here in a hot minute at that speed.”

Saren started to say something, then grunted like he’d been hit. Nihlus stilled, waiting for whatever came next like a tightly strung instrument. The wait was mercifully short before an aggravated growl rolled over itself on the com channel, subvocal tones sounded annoyed, and maybe winded, but not wounded. “You are not equipped to do anything against a vehicle like that. Head back to your previous position, and see if the rocketeer had any unused munition.”

Fuck _yes_ , he liked the sound of that. “On it.”

Nihlus stowed his weapons and sprinted back into the valley, not wanting to be out in the open when air support came flying in. His long legs got him there fast, breathing like a bellows as he came up on the first point of contact. The corpse who’d had the heavy weapon was a mess, crushed inside their own armor, crushed and discarded much the same as a glorified tupari can. He manhandled the body, hoping the ammo belt or munition sash had more rounds on it.

The whine of an incoming shuttle hit his hearing as coms picked up again. “I believe I have found their base. A natural cave, barely expanded.”

"Oh yeah?" Nihlus’ mandibles fluttered in satisfaction when his hands found two more rockets on the back of the ammo belt. “That’s probably why we couldn’t find them from orbit. Are you going in after the key?”

Saren hummed in the affirmative. “We have a little under two hours to deactivate the network of bombs, so yes.”

“Right,” he paused, debating whether to say more than that. After a heartbeat, sentiment won. “Well take care in there. Coms might be spotty.”

Nihlus wasn’t sure how the metaphorical air over a _com channel_ could feel weighty and complicated, but it did. A reply came on a slight delay, soft as an afterthought. “You as well.”

The noise of shuttlecraft was growing louder, echoing off the valley walls and spurring Nihlus to get moving. Rocket launcher, ammo, and Spectre trainee hid behind between a scraggly bush and a rock pile. Not the best cover, but the least-bad option for breaking up his outline from the air. 

He loaded the launcher, then waited and watched, poised for an opportunity to blow the reinforcements to bits. He was planning to wait for the craft to land and spill out terrorist forces, then he’d aim to the middle and let fly. Reload fast, and aim for the shuttle if it had guns, or at the stragglers if it didn’t. If possible, capture it. A shuttle would get them back to the colony way faster than the speeders they’d commandeered to get out here. 

The opportunity to let fly never came. 

The shuttle zipped by, slower than before but still moving fast. It’s sides were missing, like it was made for rapid ground deployment, but the inside… it was empty.

“Saren, somethings wrong. The APC passed me at full speed, and there’s no one-” was all he got out before shuttle met stone, slamming into a craig further north and exploding in a wave of drive core failure. 

Strangely, for how loud the subsequent rumbling was, he could hear every beat of his own heart. 

oooooooooooooooo

When consciousness again found Saren, he rather wished it had waited a bit longer. He rolled onto hands and knees with a groan, nearly going right back over on the other side. He steadied, breathing through the pain, grateful for the clean, cool air his armor’s environmental system maintained. Said environmental system had readouts on his combat overlay which were blinking bloody murder at him, furious about a dozen things but thankfully contained in the corner of his vision. Outside of his visor the world was a cloud of ash and dust, sparking in faint ripples of blue and purple. 

A normal drive core, in a worst case scenario on impact, could possibly crack. This was not that. This was a purposeful containment failure, as evidenced by the swirling eddies of charged, aerosolized element zero that lit the cave in shifting blurs.

Anyone exposed to this was dead. 

“Nihlusss?” He hissed at the sharp spike of fire that talking caused. His side felt like it was pressed against a bed of embers. Saren resisted the urge to cough with a will. “Come in.”

No response. 

Gingerly, the Spectre staggered to his feet. One foot was moving wrong, also inflamed, and probably twisted. Not badly enough to keep him down though. He shuffled toward where he had last seen the terrorist organization’s leader. The key, he needed it. The fool had built in no manual or digital overrides on the surface glassing bombs that threatened the sector’s biggest farming colony. 

He also needed his protégé to not come in here, the radiation levels were probably off the charts, even for a Turian. “Nihlus. Stay away. Drive core was… breached. Do you copy?” 

Still nothing. 

Aggravated, Saren searched the ground where he had been standing. Finding neither terrorist nor key he shambled deeper into the cave, in a direct line away from the explosion at the cave’s mouth. There was every chance that the leader, who had been in tech armor, was currently experiencing organ failure. So. Even if they were alive after the blast, they could not have gone far. Spirits willing. 

Their communication channel crackled, oddly in sync with the flare of a nearby swirl. “-ren, sm- pzzfffff--- sszzzzff- fuck, fuckfuck, _please_ , are- fffzzz szzt szzt-”

“The interference is strong. If you can hear me, get to a s- mnf... safe distance. I repeat, get to a sssafe distan-” Saren’s need to cough finally won out over his self control, and he fell into the wall with spasming pain. A sparkling cloud of dust rushed past him as he went, and a sensation like being touched swept down the nodes on his leg, eerily. 

He shuddered, and began to stagger onward. 

His armor, at least, was quality enough to keep him alive and protected for a time in these conditions. Nihlus’ gear... he’d been upgrading the standard issue and piecemeal junk his trainee owned, bit by bit. Better weapons and shields had come before physical armor. 

He regretted that choice now, clueless as to the specs on Nihlus armor. Not knowing felt like a personal failure. 

A leg, limp and unmoving behind a series of shattered stalagmites, caught his attention. Saren worked his way around the side of the rock formation, trying to confirm… yes, it was the terrorist leader. The bodies of several others were impaled nearby. All very dead. 

“Saren!” 

That… was not from coms. He turned, pessimistically certain while equally hopeful that he had not just heard his name over external speakers. 

Oh, but of course he had.

Nihlus emerged from the settling dust like a wraith, stalking toward him at a clip. “Thank the spirits you’re alive! Are-”

Saren pressed at the button that activated his external mic. He missed twice before getting it. “How… _foolish_ ,” he wheezed, “Get out of here!”

His trainee’s forward momentum stalled out, a meter away. “I, what? _Spirits_ , you look terrible. Are you alright? Dumb question, sorry. I have fucking eyeballs. Sorry. Did you find the key?”

Saren growled low in his chest, nevermind the discomfort it caused. Nihlus was not _listening_ , and while they would have a talk about that later, for now the quickest way to get him out of here without an argument was within easy reach. The Spectre spun with more force than necessary, wanting to snatch his objective and leave quickly. Spite was the only thing that kept the aggravated torin from planting his face in the ground when the world kept on spinning a few turns without him.

Firm hands caught and steadied his shoulder. Saren snarled, pressing forward toward the litter of bodies. The leader lay in a sprawl, one arm gone entirely, shrapnel peppering the rest. The key, a flat card of titanium with circuitry-like grooves, hung from around their neck on a cord. It appeared undamaged, and spirits willing it actually was so. 

He did indeed snatch it up, and turned immediately to leave. Nihlus followed, quiet in the way that meant he had fifty things to say. 

Saren ignored the behavior, unwilling to focus on anything but getting out of the danger zone, immediately, and returning to the agri-colony with all due haste. There was a scant hour and change until this sector was doomed to starve, at least until resources could be rerouted. Which simply meant that everyone in the cluster starved, but just a little.

People were inclined to belligerence when hungry, and everyone knew the Skyllian Verge needed no further detractions from peace. 

Harsh desert sunlight was a welcome sight, peeking through the smoldering ruins of the crashed shuttle and rocky entrance. Saren eyed the wreckage as he moved through it. Why and how the terrorists had rigged the rather small drive core to explode so dramatically was a mystery for later. 

For now, he took off down the trail in a graceless shamble. The air seemed mostly clear out here, and surely the radiation levels were lower, but element zero dust had a track record of dispersing to cause trouble in any ecosystem not accustomed to it. The colony would have to scan their produce for years to come, though contaminated foodstuff would likely be viable food for biotics of any species, and all Asari.

“Saren, are you-”

Ah. Nihlus couldn’t keep his fifty things in any longer. 

“Quiet, save your breath for running. Go retrieve our transport.”

“Right, on it.” His trainee quick-stepped sideways and bounced on his heels as he hummed affirmation, then took off running. And Sparatus accused _him_ of being more comfortable with action over words. Hmph. 

Saren continued toward the mouth of the valley, at a very slow jog. That lasted about twenty steps, and died down into a lame speed walk. He took the free moment to read the status notifications from earlier. His tactical HUD had no fewer than ten pending health notifications from passive monitoring, and a priority notice that the topical medi-gel dispensers in his medical weave were nearly empty. Injectable medi-gel was at half, clotting boosters were low, and his blood pressure was being artificially raised. 

The Spectre looked down at himself, and finally noticed the slick paint of cobalt across his middle, streaks going sideways from the blast, trails running down his leg and onto the sand. A chunk of shrapnel was embedded in his silver armor, pinning it in place to the hide below. That… explained the difficulty breathing. 

He heard Nihlus’ return before he saw it, the soldier’s tall form on one of the speeders, zipping between obstacles at an incautious pace. His trainee pulled to the side on approach, and hopped off the vehicle as soon as it was mostly stopped. “I couldn’t figure out how to drive both at once, so I brought one.”

Saren tilted his crest in acceptance, and walked past him toward the hovering speeder. “I will go ahead. Get to the other speeder and follow as quickly as you can.” He got on, carefully not-wincing. More heat washed up his side at the mild twist needed to mount the seat. Saren turned to stare his trainee down with no small amount of reproach. “You will head straight for… whatever they have that passes for a medical center.”

Only a head shorter, even while standing beside the hovering speeder, Nihlus flicked his crest in a nod even though his feet shuffled with uncertainty. “Yeah, uh, meet you there.”

Saren was taking off halfway through ‘meet’, barely waiting until he cleared the valley’s mouth to open up the throttle. Bracing half of the steering with a knee, he checked the countdown on his ‘tool. Fifty seven minutes until failure. He checked the ETA next. Sixty one and change until arrival. Unacceptable.

He drew in a breath, and pulled in a way that no non-biotic would understand. The speedometer rose as it’s load lightened, higher and higher, until the meter itself had no gauge for the impossible acceleration. Saren focused on his breathing as the strain settled in. He felt clear and light, and about ten minutes from a drop-down migraine. 

Fifty seven minutes until failure. Forty four until arrival. Better. 

So long as there were no complications, the colony would see another day. 

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Nihlus would swear he could _smell_ biotics on the air as he followed the dust trail of Saren’s speeder. Something like ozone, maybe. It reminded him of a thunderstorm, that faint charge in the air when you knew the weather was turning. It was completely incongruous with the dry, withered desert all around him. Maybe that’s why it stood out. 

As the sprawling dunes flew by, Nihlus had time to think, though he wasn’t sure if he should. One hand on the steering, the other loose by his side, the long limbed torin was sure he'd rather play with physics, chasing the wind up and down the grainy hills.

His hind brain disagreed, and interjected into his fun with the deep boom of the shuttle as it impacted. Nihlus felt brittle behind his keel at the thought. Some part of him wanted to say it was because he wasn’t a Spectre yet, and if Saren bit the big one now, he probably never would be. No one gave Nihlus Kryik second chances, fact of life. 

But also… spirits… there was no replacing Saren. Waking up to gourmet pastries when the Spectre turned to stress baking all night, because he had too much on his mind from juggling a massive, problematic sector basically on his own. Saren's patience when explaining something new, over and over, until Nihlus could get it through his thick skull. The way his hips shifted when he walked around the ship, not-quite pacing. The cultured, almost sensual way he spoke when lecturing on galactic stability or sociopolitics…

Nihlus groaned at himself, the looseness in his pelvic plates, and the world in general. He ran his free hand over the top of his helmet in lieu of the crest blades he couldn’t reach. It didn’t really help his frazzled sense of frustration or-

Different topic. Think about something else. 

‘He was pissed off back there, in the cave. What’d I fuck up this time?’ his mind supplied readily. Nihlus considered it, but nothing stood out. He’d run up into the hills after the explosion stopped, rifle ready in case of ambush. Into the cave, around the debris, and maybe a quarter klick in. Then, he’d found Saren. Who had looked… pretty damn rough. Maybe Saren was just grouchy from taking a bad hit? 

The would-be Spectre let the unanswered question fall away, eyes searching the horizon where the oncoming colony proper cluttered the skyline with a dozen buildings and a few hundred silos. As his speeder made it to the edge of the colonial administration complex, the sight of two Salarians hugging and crying and cheering made him smile. 

Saren must have gotten the network of bombs offline. 

Next to the admin building, drones were just starting to unload hastily packed cargo haulers. Produce and emergency supplies were returning to the facility, setting things to right. Nihlus scoped the goings on for his mentor. Not catching any hints of silver-grey plates or armor in their midst, he carried on past. He was supposed to head for the medical center, anyway. 

Five minutes later, Nihlus had to give up. There really wasn’t a hospital here, per say. Not even a clinic.They weren’t poor here, not by a long shot, but with so few people they probably didn’t need a dedicated hospital as much as other things. Turning back for the main building, he parked the speeder and went looking for Saren, or someone else to ask about medical facilities. Whichever he found first. 

As luck would have it, he found both at the same time. Saren was talking to a nicely dressed admin, helm off and gripped tightly in one hand, as if it could keep him standing. His gear was a mess, and he was favoring one side pretty bad. Nihlus settled the borrowed speeder beside the nearest structure, and joined the party. 

“I’m sorry Spectre, this is the best we can offer you. Please, make yourself comfortable inside, and I’ll send Dr. Torres to you as soon as I find him.”

Nihlus read the stiff dip of Saren’s head as displeasure, but the administrator smiled brilliantly at him, sashaying off with good cheer. His feet came to a stop beside Saren’s and he removed his helm as well, facing the same way but glancing sideways at the other male. “I’m guessing they don’t have a clinic? This place is pretty small, population wise.”

Saren grunted, visibly stiffened in a not-wince, and then turned to enter the building. 

Inside was a sort of community bath house, largely geared toward the colony’s primarily Salarian citizens. Brushed white metal and pastel-green chrome accents made up various bathing pools and lounge seating, shelving and showers. Living, blooming vine walls that looked straight from Sur’kesh broke up the various areas, and screened off most of it from the entryway. 

This place was probably the colony’s pride and joy. It was also so far out of left field that Nihlus couldn’t help but explore. 

“Spirits, this is officially my fall back plan if you decide I’m not cut out for ST&R. Why did I never think to be a farmer? Check out that-” He cut off, having walked forward a ways, then turned back around to face his mentor. Saren’s expression gave him pause. It was as thunderous as the storms he smelled like. 

“Saren…?” He tried, nervously.

Said Spectre stepped closer, wheezing in pain, but no less intense for it. Nihlus’ eyes strayed down to the worst wound, the chunk of metal sticking out from plate and armor. It probably wasn’t all that deep, but it looked… uhhh... uncomfortable. 

“What were you thinking, coming into the cave?” Saren’s voice barked, echoed off the bathhouse walls. “It was a radiation hot zone, Kryik.”

Oh joy, they were back to clan names. He knew he was in deep shit when it was 'Kryik' and not 'Nihlus'. 

“I ahh... the critical radiation warning on my ‘tool didn’t go off, so I assumed it was safe enough? And you were inside, close to the blast and probably injured?” He tried not to sound like he was asking questions, really he did, but too-blue eyes like glacial ice had him by the gut. Normally he was more brazen than this with his commanding officers. Then again, none of his previous C.O.s where half as... Saren... as Saren was. 

Those eyes narrowed at him, suspiciously. “And what, pray tell, is the safety level of your omni-tool set to?”

Nihlus decided to show, rather than tell. He brought up the glowing orange of his haptic screen, found the right settings, and lifted his arm to where his mentor could see. Conveniently, the app he used had a ‘recent exposure’ graph at the top. Surely enough, it had spiked past ‘safe for constant exposure’, climbed over ‘tolerable briefly’, and stopped just short of his custom settings for ‘danger, avoid’. 

Saren grabbed his arm and stared at the numbers for a moment, then stepped back entirely. “Your limits are set very high.”

Nihlus shrugged, his torso armor rising and falling with the motion. “I’ve got the augs for radiation recovery -did a stint of guard duty on an asteroid post that required it- and I’m dark plated. I mean, I used the app to calculate those levels and not a medical tech, and... I’ll probably need some down time, but… I’m fine? I didn’t breathe any of it in, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

The squint eased off and Nihlus offered a weak smile, hoping for mercy for... whatever transgression this was. His mentor sighed between his teeth.

It occurred to him then that the fading anger in the other torin's eyes might have been less judgement for a fuck up, and more like fear for his safety... While Saren himself was slowly dripping blue onto the nice white floors. 

They stared at each other, silver-grey expression smoothing out while carmine-brown dawned with something like hopeful disbelief. The main door chose that moment to swish open, and a yellow-green Salarian in a clean cut medical outfit blew inside, a mobile medical unit floating in on hover tech behind him. “Spectres, pleasure, I’m Dr. Torres, three doctorates, and you’re in luck, one of them is in Turian medicine. Administrator Ifisha mentioned radiation exposure? Immediate problem seems to be blood loss. Should treat that first. Please disrobe?”

As the good doctor approached and spoke, very fast, Nihlus watched Saren tense. His back heel lifted like he wanted to create space. Or possibly, run for it. The Salarian turned to his equipment and started a small fabricator running universal blood replacement serum. Nihlus took that opportunity to step between his mentor and Dr. Torres. The move had been instinctual, but now that he was in the middle, he wasn’t sure where he’d been going with it. 

“Ah…” Nihlus supplied, turning at the waist to look toward Saren for cues. The Spectre’s mandibles tilted very slightly, as if clenching his jaw, but he began gingerly removing armor piece by piece, starting with the pauldrons. Each section was stacked neatly on a nearby bench. 

Nihlus himself, still off base and just kind of going with it, moved to flip the catches on his own armor. He wasn’t injured really, at least not in an overt way that needed patching up. The young soldier just needed food and rest while his system dealt with whatever radiation he’d caught. Possibly some boosters for any hormone imbalances. He wouldn’t say no to a good lay and some booze, either. 

Regardless, it didn’t seem fair to stay geared up while Saren was putting up with removing his. They were even in a bath house, so it made some sort of sense, and his armor needed cleaned real bad. It was covered in traces of eezo and a fantastic amount of dust. There was sand in _many_ places. “Have I mentioned that sandy deserts are one of the worst biomes ever? Because they are. There's fucking sand _up in my spur guard_.”

Dr. Torres turned back around, medical scanner and blood replacement pouch in hand, chuckling as Nihlus poured sand out of the external nooks of his leg armor. “But they do make for excellent hydroponics farming.”

“No scans, doctor,” interjected Saren as the Salarian approached. He sounded weary, and a little faint. Nihlus figured he must be coming down off the adrenaline, or stims if he’d used them, and surreptitiously stole a glance at his throat. Saren was always pale, but the hide there looked almost blanched.

Dr. Torres frowned, drawing the medical scanner to his chest like Saren had insulted it’s mother. “I can’t work effectively without basic diagnostics. Are you absolutely certain?”

Saren grunted in answer, then patted for the bench beside his armor plates. He sat down heavily, his signature pistol in one hand, held loosely. Only the upper half of his armor was off, leg plates and boots still in place. The bodysuit he wore beneath it all was a crunchy mess of blue blood and orange medi-gel, half hardened in place as the gel cured into solid adhesive in the open air. With the last of his armor off, Nihlus sat down by Saren with an aim for that personal space sweet spot, outside of too close but within comfortable range to talk. He didn't get a _look_ , so either he'd managed it, or the other torin was just that far out of it. 

Inhaling for patience, in that brisk way unique to Salarians, Dr. Torres set his scanner down and brought over the blood replacement instead. “Here comes the pinch,” he warned, attaching the armband that would deliver the venous boost. Saren didn’t so much as twitch, though his head drooped low in his collar. “Can I at least see your vitals, Spectre?”

Saren’s talons gestured in the vague direction of his ‘tool, once then twice, without accomplishing anything. Nihlus looked up at the doctor, and they shared a sense of worry, no cross-species translation needed. Clearing his throat, the younger Turian moved into his mentor’s space enough to help his hand get to the activation button for his omni-tool, which flickered to life with the correct biometric touch. 

He stared at the screen, with it’s high resolution and absurdly small scale. There were enough modules on the interface to give a Quarian engineer pause. “Saren, uh, which app is your vitals monitor?”

Saren tapped three times without looking, as if by muscle memory, and a new window opened above the main display with wonderfully detailed, live stats. Then, Nihlus yelped as the Spectre nearly slid off the bench in a dead faint, barely catching him. 

Ooooooooooooooooooooooo

The sludgy dreams of the well medicated lingered in Saren’s mind as he drifted toward consciousness. Above him, a pastel blur resolved into white metal and green chrome.

Ah, he was... in that bath house… probably.

From somewhere off to his left, Nihlus was humming a tune. It sounded like a pop song, though the notes trailed off every now and again, as if he were distracted. Probably drawing. Nihlus always started humming when he drew.

Saren tried to look, but the pillows propping up his neck were too numerous. His crest was stuck. With a huff, he lifted himself up on an elbow and turned. Sure enough, his apprentice was sitting on the floor nearby, sketching on his omni-tool. He couldn’t see what, precisely. 

Realizing he was squinting at the light levels, the Spectre turned his eyes downward, closing them and hiding from the well lit room for just a moment more. What he’d seen in that brief glance had been different from before. They were in a smaller room, the door closed with a red lit holo panel. He was laying on a long piece of furniture, something like a chaise lounge but with waterproofed fabrics. 

One moment more, hiding from the bright light, turned into two, turned into several.

“Oh, hey, you’re awake. Feeling better?” came Nihlus’ voice, then nondescript shuffling. He grunted in reply, unwilling to leave the comfortable darkness in the crook of his elbow. 

“Saren?” the young soldier tried again, sounding closer.

“Quieter, please.”

This time, in a whisper, “Alright. Your head hurting you?”

“Mmnf.”

“I’ll lower the lights, hold on.”

The sound of bare feet and talon clicks on metal flooring moved away. The light through his eyelids visibly dimmed, and he dared open an eye to judge the rest of the room. It was now something more like shipboard lighting, and less like a bright day in the jungle. There was a bathing pool done in Salarian aesthetics across the room from his makeshift bed, big enough for ten people. In the lower lights, the bottom of the pool was nothing but shade. 

“Better?” Nihlus asked him softly. 

Saren carefully sat up, feeling at his side for damage. There didn’t seem to be anything left besides scar tissue and a bit of clean medi-gel to stabilize the area. His protégé sat down beside him, casually naked and recently bathed. He smelled strange, like alien soaps rather than his usual-

He cut the thought off, sitting up straighter and testing the wound’s give. It was tender, but he seemed to have the necessary range of motion to get moving. Which he tried to do. It didn’t go well. 

“Shit, don’t-” Nihlus caught him, sparing Saren from breaking his excellent track record of not planting his face in the ground today. “Sorry, didn’t mean to raise my voice. Maybe you should eat something and keep resting? You lost enough blood that I’d still be worried about you if you were Krogan.”

He turned a glare on his meddlesome trainee, pulling away to sit back down. “Mind yourself.” 

Nihlus just smiled, appropriating a ration bar from thin air and offering it out. “Yes sir.”

Saren, annoyed and slightly nauseous, didn’t particularly want the bar. His biotic appetite, hours from starting to self-cannibalize for the calories, snatched the offering away and had it unwrapped before the Spectre knew what he was doing. He looked at the rectangle of protein-rich dextro crumbles accusingly before swallowing it whole. It was merely a ration bar... but it was his preferred flavor. 

His apprentice smirked intolerably, and held out another. 

Saren practiced acceptance, and ate the second one in two bites, hoping it would stop the tremor in his limbs. “Where did you get these?”

Nihlus pointed one talon toward the table at the foot of the lounger. It looked like the colony had gone pantry diving for dextro foods, and come up with an eclectic basket of offerings for the agents who’d saved their livelihood. Canned dextro root vegetables, fresh berries, jerky and trail mix, a wide mix of ration bars, and a small selection of salty candies. There was even a 500ml bottle of beer, two cans of orange tupari, and many water bottles. 

“I’d call them the rich spoils of war, but it’s more like the vaguely edible spoils of good deeds.” Nihus joked, lamely. “But they tried their best to provide for your, uh, convalescence.” 

Saren’s browridges dropped as he matched the powerful lethargy in his limbs and the fog in his head to, possibly, having been out of it for more than a few hours. He brought up his ‘tool to check the date and time, and ended up exhaling through his nose in agitation. Almost a full cycle and a half, he had been unconscious. 

“Hand me another ration bar. We aren’t staying.” He demanded, willing his digestion to get started on what he’d already given it. 

Nihlus obeyed, but his mandibles were drooped in a worried frown as he handed it over. The green of his eyes seemed stunningly... _bright.._. compared to the pastel greens all around. “Are you sure we can’t give it another night? Head out in the morning? We’ve got this whole suite all to ourselves for as long as we want it, and there’s an attached sauna. And a machine that dispenses cool towels.”

“Bright.” Saren said, brain a half step behind.

“Oh, well, yeah. I guess mornings planet side can be pretty bright.”

“No, I meant-” Saren stopped himself. Opened his mouth, then noticed Nihlus’ confused but earnest gaze, watching him. His mouth closed, and he dropped his face into a palm, and braced that arm on a knee. “Very well, first thing tomorrow.”

His apprentice raised both arms in the air, and in a whisper, said “Wooooo!”

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Nihlus, having claimed a tupari and some trail mix for himself, added the snack to his growing homebase on the floor. The otherwise empty corner had become his workspace and crash pad, for the time being. An extra chair, too small for a Turian frame, was his side table. A set of baskets meant to hold bathers’ things while they soaked had become his armor cache, weapon cache, and temporary trash holder. His bed was a nest of pillows and stolen towels.

It was actually kind of fun. Like being a fledgeling again. 

Granted, there was another big lounger in the attached sunning room intended for him, both areas of which the administrator had arranged for them to have private access to for the immediate future. 

Except he’d tried going to the other room to sleep last night, and had spent a very long half-hour getting more and more wound up. 

That powerful, reverberating _whomp_ as the terrorist shuttle crashed into the side of the valley chased itself around in circles in his memory. Nihlus caught himself logging into the local com buoy, in order to hack into the colony’s satellites and check the sky above them, just to be safe. And he _hated_ hacking, because he _sucked_ at it. 

Nihlus flopped into his pillow nest, and sighed. He felt a little bit hypocritical, having gotten a thrill from the near-miss rocket, but wanting to set orbital defenses on high alert because an already crashed shuttle _might_ come back somehow and try to plough into Saren for round two.

He did trail mix about it, popping individual nuts into the air and catching them with his mouth. 

Across the room, the center of his thoughts was curled up in a loose ball, passed out again. Only the the tip of one valluvian horn peaked out from the light blankets. Saren had eaten four ration bars, chugged a bottle of water, and gone right back down for more unconsciousness. Nihlus couldn’t blame him, especially if his head was hurting. Big bang biotics and being a crash test dummy all in one day? It would wipe out most people in a more literal sense. For his mentor though, a bit of patching up had left the Spectre with nothing more than a slamming headache and a case of the munchies. 

Nihlus caught himself smiling, and cracked open the tupari. Of course, the noise made the blanket-covered form twitch. He froze, one talon still looped into the square pop tab on the can. 

“Mnnf.”

He whispered back, “sorry,” and attempted not to make any more noise. He even avoided taking a swig of the delicious smelling tupari for a minute, for fear of the liquid glurping too loudly out of the can. 

It was no good though, Saren’s haggard form rose from the covers, and wandered off toward the restroom. Nihlus set the rest of his trail mix aside, in favor of reading the news on his ‘tool and sipping at the bitter citrus-inspired tupari. 

The Republics were voting on whether to make a largeish colony a full member or to wait a bit. The Systems Alliance had gotten caught with their talons in the snack jar, stealing research data from the Hegemony, but plot twist, the Hegemony had stolen the conceptual data from them a few months back. A Prime Dalatrass Presumptive had been named from one of the Union's big lineages. The Hanar had thrown a fit over the discovery of an industrial age species, treating Prothean ruins like they were public parks. A Hierarchy Duarch had been caught meeting with separatist supporters. 

Hmm. The same old stuff, more or less. 

Sound caught his hearing, and Nihlus looked up to find Saren pressed to a wall, breathing a little fast. He popped up with the intent to help, crossing the room and reaching out brace his mentor like he’d do for anyone that was struggling to walk. “You alright? Doc left orders to rest for a-”

His hand had almost made it to Saren’s back when the Spectre suddenly stood straight on his own, recoiling slightly and not-quite managing to cut off a hiss of warning. Nihlus put his hands up in the universal sign for ‘peace, i’m unarmed’. “Okay, sorry, sorry. Was just trying to help you get back to the couch thing.”

Saren’s energy bled back out of him as quickly as it had come, and he leaned back into the wall, albeit with only one palm. “I… apologize. It was good of you to… think to help me. I am not headed back to sleep, however. I want to bathe, while the opportunity is presenting itself.”

Nihlus let his hands fall, smiling crookedly. “I hear you there. I’ve had three baths since we got here. Nothing like a good soak, even if they don’t have rasps or plate balm like a normal bath house.” 

Saren made to take a step, and while it was successful it wasn’t all that steady. Nihlus moved aside, reaching to support him again but stopping before he made actual contact. “May I?”

He got squinted at for a moment before Saren’s weariness outweighed his stubborn with a subvocal hum of acceptance. Unbothered, the younger male continued to chatter as if being allowed to help was no big thing. He was also actively pretending that the feeling of Saren’s midback held in his arm wasn’t dissolving his gizzard into fizzy vapor. “I checked up on the news while you were out. Nothing was sending up sparks, thought you’d like to know.”

Saren chuffed, “Which news sources did you check, and which problems were you looking for?”

Fairly sure he had this one in the bag, Nihlus allowed himself to preen a little. “The same sources you had me bookmark. CDN, CSL, AntoiNet, Illium Up, and so on. Everyone’s got some happenings, but no suspiciously clean endings to corporate drama, or sudden surges in distracting celebrity events. The pattern spotting algorithm you gave me to run over top my extranet browser didn’t find anything either.”

Saren didn’t offer praise, but silver-grey shoulders relaxed into his hold a little more. Nihlus attempted to not be the first non-biotic to float up off the ground. 

Oooooooooooooooooooooo

Saren slid into the toasty hot water with an expansive sigh. In his brief moment of complete distraction, Nihlus joined him on the submerged seating. Long, carmine-brown legs stretched out in the water. 

He stilled, considering that perhaps he had miscalculated, somewhere between accepting help and making it to the pool. 

Nihlus continued his insightful tirade about galactic news, colorfully conveying what the major players were getting up to. Saren tried to be attentive, truly, but he was being driven to distraction by the all the flipping and waving of talons that made up his protégé‘s hand gestures. He was very expressive, and those hands were... absurdly beautiful. Rich in color and long fingered. 

Saren rubbed at his forecrest, feeling mildly ridiculous.

A hand landed briefly on his shoulder, casually bringing him into the play of fingers and narrative. Saren missed the next five words entirely. His mind came back from the battle between recoiling and leaning into it just in time for the hand to be gone, now being used in tandem with Nihlus other hand and left foot to demonstrate the number of merc bases he suspected were part of… whichever story he was elucidating on. 

Saren finally just gave up trying to pay attention, and interrupted him. “Nihlus.”

“- so then there’s got to be a- hmm?” The other male paused, full attention suddenly on him via sharp green eyes. 

“I… appreciate your thoroughness, but if you could tell me all this again tomorrow, that would be better. I am… distracted.”

“Oh sure,” came the easy reply, “It’s one big, steaming pile of stulti, and it’s always hard to concentrate when you’ve got the anemia woosies, right?”

Steaming pile. Anemia woosies. Sometimes Saren felt the urge to ask where Nihlus had learned his more colorful turns of phrase. Perhaps ask about his experience with ‘anemia woosies’. Instead, this day, he simply hummed in neutral agreement, and shut his eyes for a moment.

Oooooooooooooooooo

The soft snore gave it away. Nihlus carefully, oh so carefully, shifted so that the head resting on his upper arm instead came to a stop against the curvature of his chest plating, inside the circle of said arm. If asked, his excuse would be safety. Saren was loopy enough that maybe-possibly if his head dipped underwater, he wouldn’t immediately wake up. He could, non-zero chance, drown if left to his own devices. 

So, really, Nihlus was just being the responsible party here. 

The quiet snore had paused as he carefully shifted, but once they were settled again it kicked back up. Something about sitting up as he dozed was giving Saren a minor, high pitched, _adorable_ wheeze at the end of each breath. Nihlus had to clutch his mandibles to his jaw to contain himself. 

The supremely dangerous special forces agent drooping over his side should _not_ possess such a charming trait as a whistling snore. A dozen breaths later, he noticed that the torin in his arms also paused between each inhale and exhale, as if taking a split second to listen for threats. 

Nihlus sat for a while, grinning like a giant moron, entirely preoccupied by his mentor’s idiosyncrasies. After a solid half hour of contentment doing pretty much nothing, which was so damn _unusual_ for him, the Spectre trainee began wondering at just how much trouble he was in. 

He passed the peaceful afternoon that way, taking in the undoubtedly rare opportunity to memorize the weight of Saren against his side. 

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Saren woke to a feeling of warmth and safety that was so incongruous with his normal state of being that he assumed the worst. Captured by enemy forces, and drugged perhaps. He held still, limp, and kept his breathing even as he listened intently. 

_Badum badum badum. Badum badum badum._

That was… a heartbeat. Perhaps he was not alone in detainment. 

_Trinkle. Tinkle. Blurble._

Fluid of some sort. The air smelled clean enough, possibly water or something similar. Fountains. Wait... he was in water?

Saren toyed with the idea of trying to access the external cameras on his armor, wherever it may be, using the cumbersome eye-movement interface on his optical implants. Higher thought like that woke up as memory began to flood back in, like a rushing tide. The agri-colony. Shuttle crash. Bomb network. Doctor Torres. Bathhouse.

He dared pop an eye open, only to be met with the flowing lines of Nihlus’ bodily colony markings as the _notas_ swept upward and out over carmine plates and ruddy brown hide. 

Like white flames, licking up his body and consuming him in his own passions.

Hmm. Perhaps he was still mostly asleep. 

At the very least, Saren had confirmed that he was not, in fact, held captive. The drugged part was still under review. 

_Badum badum badum. Badum badum badum._

Saren caught his eyes drooping, the steady beat of Nihlus’ heart lulling him back toward rest like a metronome. His hide felt a little waterlogged, but the even warmth of the water, and the muscled arm around his back were disastrously comfortable. 

His own sense of personal space niggled, reminding the Spectre that he had never liked anyone touching him. His feelings on the matter argued lazily back and forth, coming up with muzzy reasons to be comfortable or uncomfortable. It was, in the end, the dichotomy of _not_ being uncomfortable when he thought he _should_ be that stirred him to reach for consciousness and try to sit up. The muscled limb wrapped around his carapace held for a moment, then relaxed and let him go. The sudden lack of anchor made him feel strangely dizzy. 

He blinked it away as Nihlus’ eminently relaxed hum echoed off the walls. “Hey there, feeling any better?”

Saren looked up, and he was _right there._ Green eyes vibrant with kindness, voice low and soothing like a mellow magma flow. The Spectre stared, for just a tiny moment, and then schooled his face and tone as he pulled away to stand. “Yes, I am. Thirsty, however.”

Nihlus hummed noncommentally, arms reaching up high above his head, back arching as he stretched. 

Saren lost another tiny moment to staring, then spun away to exit the pool. 

One water bottle disappeared down his throat, and he dropped the container in the recycler by the door before grabbing a second one to sip on. He lifted the arm with his subcutaneous omni-tool, and ran a medical scan on himself. Dehydrated slightly, anticipated. Blood panel was clean. Caloric deficit, surprise surprise. Nothing more problematic than that. 

Feeling less lethargic and more in control of himself, the Spectre closed the program and took a turn of the room. He was clean enough, but not comfortably groomed. Hide was waterlogged, and would become intolerably dry and itchy if he didn’t find a balm or conditioner of sorts. His talons needed care, one tip had broken entirely at some point. 

The short lap of this room and it’s adjoined spaces turned up a Salarian lotion that smelled obnoxiously fruity, horn and scalp oils that were less offensive, and a fishy shower gel that was absolutely not going on his person. It was _foul,_ like swamp and baked grass.

Saren returned to the lounger in the first room, the scalp oil container in hand, and began to coat himself to avoid the dreaded plate-itch. The unitchable itch. He would take a full shower and go after himself with a proper rasp, exfoliant, and plate balms later. Back on his ship. 

An appreciative hum echoed off the walls, and Saren looked up from covering his leg. Nihlus was out of the water, toweling off absently, and watching him. Ruddy brown throat hide was flushed, turning it softly maroon. Faintly, down his waist and along the edges of his pelvic plates, the flush continued. 

Realizing what he'd just witnessed while giving the other torin a _once over_ , Saren snapped his eyes upward. His apprentice dissolved into coughing when their eyes met, muttering ”Iuhsorrydidn’tmean.um.”

Saren blinked at him, repressing the slow, amused smile that wanted to pull at his mandibles. A quarter ton of muscle and bad attitude, reduced to shy mumbling. It seemed he was not the only one... distracted. Perhaps a day or two in a proper port of call would give them both a chance to avail themselves of alone time, or professionals. 

Nihlus smiled back, handsome and unfairly attractive. 

Casually, he tossed the oil container at the younger torin and laid back on the couch. His hide would need a little while to absorb the oil and dry out before armoring up. He would catch up on ST&R intel, and plan their next moves in the mean time. 

Little did he know his apprentice had taken that small sign of not-disapproval, and was already imagining plans of his own. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I made an attempt to write this Saren and Nihlus fanon-typical rather than going out of my way to underscore the quirks and habits of my distinct versions of them, since this pair aren't exactly the same as the ones from EDaH. I couldn't help but color outside the lines at times, because otherwise my muse would simply laugh in my face, but where the ven diagrams of their canon / fanon / EDaH selves overlapped, I made them as strong and vivid as I could. It was an interesting challenge. n_n


End file.
